H. Hsu Word Salad

Crimes Against Poetry

Geez, I was about to start writing this entry and have been distracted by some idiotic banner ad about “Chinese secret weight loss - the shocking reason chinese women stay slim” or some b.s. like that. Fodder for another blog post surely.

What I meant to say, is that at the California Book Awards, Khaled Hosseini (author of Kite Runner) talked about his beginnings as an acclaimed, now world famous author.  He mentioned making less than $4 an hour cranking our burgers at Great America theme park. Then another restaurant. And then his favorite stint: security  guard.  You tech workers know the type- they guy who site in your glass castle and scans your ID badge or makes guests sign in on a clipboard at all hours of day and night.  Back in P’s Oracle days I made countless visits to the security guy nesting at the base of those gleaming turquoise towers.  Hosseini said that the best thing about the job was that he himself was also under survellaince cameras, and therefore could not amend the boredom by sleeping, watching TV, reading magazines.  But he could write and still appear presentable and employable.  So he wrote reams of stuff and ”committed crimes against poetry.”

Well. That just struck me as funny as heck and true as can be.  I won prizes for haiku back in elementary school, then soon lost interest in poems.  I mean, for heaven’s sake - what IS a poem anyways?  As a once creative writer (pre-dissertation, which causes mental rigor mortis), I shunned the stifling and prone to maudlin halls of poetry.  No way could I be bothered with cryptic meanings, measures, and verse.

Yet now, in my more august years, every writing class I take features the same advice: read poetry.  Each instructor, none of whom actually writes poetry, advises me to study poetry to truly understand the use of language.  What seemed either stuffy or flaky in my youth, now seems wholly intimidating.  Egads, if the words are pared and spare - I’ll be naked, revealed! Revealed as the undiscplined, untalented, wily nily shadow of literati.

Yet-”crimes against poetry”. I can certainly do that!

In fact, that’s it. I conquer my resistance and fears by hereby expressly seeking to commit crimes against poetry.  There U have it, a disclaimer. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

We shall begin, with a bit of a limerick with which I kicked off my matron of honor speech:  

There once was a boy from Kentucky,

Who met a mental health Georgia Peach,

They went from speed dating,

To talking,

about

love and marriage

on a beach.

 

Or how about this random September brain blip on BART:

 

She would sooner throw herself under

a bus.

Than succumb

to the cravings, longings, desires

so curious for a

Buddhist

of sorts.

So typical for a foodie

of sorts

all aromas and texture

sabor y rica

pero-

there is no eating allowed,

on the bus.

 

BTW, buses figure very prominently in my dreams.  Usually in a bad way, i.e. being lost on a city bus to god knows where.  Oh yes, in the landscape of my nightlife, I have been lost on countless buses in various universes, always alone.  Which is indeed curious as I do not actually ride the bus!

I’ve probably been on like 5 city buses in the last 5 years max. Go figure.

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